


bluewater love

by vol_ctrl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Historical, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Letters, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:47:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21861685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vol_ctrl/pseuds/vol_ctrl
Summary: Commander Aziraphale avoids a certain stretch of ocean at all costs: “pirates,” he says as he trades spices and precious cargo for British Aristocrats. There’s really only one pirate though— his husband, Captain Crowley, of which they have an arrangement to stay out of each other’s way. It’s a turbulent marriage to say the least, but they rendezvous on isolated islands where they can remind themselves of exactly why they’re together.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 83
Collections: Hot Omens, Oh Come All Ye Sinful! A Depraved Holiday Exchange 2019





	bluewater love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KitschyKit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitschyKit/gifts).



> This was written based on the prompt above for **KearatheShadow** over on the M25 Discord server for our crossover Holiday Exchange! I may have gone overboard with the ocean imagery, heh. Merry happy! Hope your holidays are warm and bright ~

“You’re late.” 

Crowley expected the cold tone of Commander Aziraphale’s voice, but he was unprepared for the faint tremble underneath it. “I know,” he said gently, utterly unlike the pirate captain who had stepped off his brigantine just as the sun was starting to dip past its zenith. Crowley had left his ruthless brogue behind on the dinghy as he sailed away from his magnificent ship and toward the hidden cove for his secret rendezvous. The sun was low now, molten golden at the cusp of the sea and sky.

“Do you know what day it is?” Aziraphale asked, fire in his eyes.

“Well,” Crowley wheedled, “I know it’s not our anniversary…”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and stared Crowley down. The swarthy pirate captain somehow looked small in his fine clothes under that fierce stare.

“Listen, I know I’m late,” he said defensively. “But I have a good reason.” He gathered himself back up to his full height, even adjusted the wide buckle around his waist.

Aziraphale waited with the patience of a saint, but an expression of judgement.

As Crowley took in a deep breath, he suddenly winced and hissed, clutching his side.

The stern look on Aziraphale’s face fell into his more natural state of concern. “What is it, Crowley?” he asked and moved quickly to close the space between them.

“Nothing, angel,” Crowley said as lightly as he could between clenched teeth. “I’m fine.” He squeezed one eye shut and adjusted himself slowly, pushing back his shoulders and straightening with just a little kick of his bootheel. “Perfectly fine. And look, I brought you a present.” He held out a dark wine bottle netted in twine as a means of distraction.

Aziraphale glanced at the bottle, took it quickly and set it down immediately. “Crowley.” He need not say more than that to voice his concern and insistence.

Crowley tried to weasel out from under the word with a smile. It didn’t work. “Alright, alright, angel,” he surrendered. “It’s just a scratch…”

Aziraphale raised a dubious eyebrow, then softened once more. “Come inside, dear. Let me have a look.” He sighed and took Crowley by the arm.

Crowley’s hand caught Aziraphale’s and halted him for a moment. Aziraphale turned to look at him and was struck by that tender look on his face. He could not control his autonomic response to that look and smiled in kind.

“Missed you, angel,” he said softly and pulled Aziraphale closer.

“And I, you,” Aziraphale admitted sweetly. He all but melted as Crowley drew him into a kiss, soft and salt of the sea. Before he could drown in that kiss, Aziraphale pulled back, a glint in those sea-sky eyes. “Now, stop trying to distract me, my dear boy. Let’s see this ‘just a scratch.’”

Crowley relented and allowed Aziraphale to sit him in a chair. This brought on another minute wince that had Aziraphale pinning him under a prim ‘I told you so’ look. He shrugged the look off with a faint roll of his eyes. He shuffled off his coat onto the back of the chair, and Aziraphale’s sharp eyes noticed that the tough fabric was stained through, albeit dry. It was hard to see because of the dark black of it, but Aziraphale had an eye for these kinds of things.

Crowley tugged his loose blouse, which was no more dingy or stained than usual, up from his laced waistband and begrudgingly exposed the ‘scratch.’ It was far more than a scratch. It was immediately apparent that Crowley had been shot. The hole was ragged and dark, but clean.

Aziraphale sucked in a breath. “Crowley,” he whispered. “Why don’t you have that wrapped up?” he asked, soft voice turning demanding.

Crowley waved it off. “Just gets irritated. I’m lettin’ it breathe.”

“And the bullet?” Aziraphale asked, biting back his flood of concern. It wasn’t the first time his husband had been shot, not by far. Such were the working conditions of being a great pirate captain. Aziraphale didn’t like it, but one couldn’t argue with one’s deployment.

“One of the boys dug that out for me. He’s got a touch for it,” Crowley said with what started as a chuckle and ended as a grimace.

“And you’ve been just walking around with this how long?”

Crowley shrugged. “A few days. Couldn’t rightly just miracle it away.” He wiggled his fingers. “I may have impossible luck, but that doesn’t undo a bullet wound.”

Aziraphale sighed. “And now that it’s set in, it’s going to take more than a minor miracle to heal.” He tutted. “And it’ll surely scar,” he said with disappointment.

“Aww, c’mon, angel.” Crowley grinned. “It’ll look rugged,” he teased.

Aziraphale gave a weary smile and a shake of his head. “Yes, dear, it will look quite rugged.” He leaned forward to rest his hands on Crowley’s shoulders. “Now take this shirt off and let me clean it properly.”

Crowley grimaced at the thought and reached for the hem of his shirt. “Alright. But let me have some of the madeira if you’re gonna do that.”

As Aziraphale turned to the table and miracled up a chest of first aid supplies, Crowley pulled himself up from the chair and sauntered over to the bottle Aziraphale had left on a table by the door. He moved as if he were still on the rocking deck of his ship, the  _ Serpent of Eden. _ The ineffable sway of his hips suited his sea-legs well.

“What is this exotic indulgence you’ve brought me this time?” Aziraphale asked with a smile.

With a snap of his fingers, Crowley summoned up two clay cups. “None too exotic. Just from Portugal,” he explained as he worked at the cork. Before he could pour, Aziraphale took the bottle from him and brought it under his nose. The angel closed his eyes and inhaled the scent.

“This should do,” he said, more business-like than he normally was when the opportunity to try a new delicacy was offered. He gave Crowley a little flick of his eyes to imply he should sit, and the demon obeyed.

As Aziraphale picked up some cloth from the chest and began dousing it with the wine, Crowley protested, “Oh, come on! You’re not even going to try it first?”

Aziraphale just smiled and put the bottle down. “I’ll drink to my husband’s health  _ after  _ I’ve seen to it.”

Crowley smirked at the angel. “Just enough of a bas _ tard-- _ ” he hissed as Aziraphale dabbed at his raw wound with the alcohol-soaked cloth. “Ow! That stings!”

“Oh, don’t be such a baby,” Aziraphale crooned. “Of course it stings.” He dabbed carefully around the ragged flesh as Crowley’s muscles twitched under his ministrations.

Crowley sullenly leaned around Aziraphale and grabbed the bottle, pouring a healthy amount into one of the cups. He drank down a solid swallow and relished in the sweet burn down his throat. It tasted of sea-soaked barrels and the sun beating down on the glittering ocean off the coast of Africa. His enjoyment was only cut by half with Aziraphale worrying over his wound, bolstered by the fact that he was here drinking it with his oft-estranged husband.

He wished he’d had this lovely spirit back then, on that fateful night when they had surreptitiously met here. The night they had wed.

It had been the sea that brought them together, as much as it kept them apart. The long stretches of being out of contact with each other seemed longer on the choppy sea with less to keep the mind occupied. It had begun innocuous enough. Crowley would jot something down, something he wished he could say to Aziraphale, something he would have said if he could just jaunt over to wherever the Commander was at that particular time. He would stuff the annecdote into a bottle, and the bottle would always find the angel, wherever he was along the trade routes he frequented.

Aziraphale avoided Crowley’s aquatic territories--ostensibly out of fear of pirate raids, but in reality so as to avoid the discovery of his secret camaraderie with a certain pirate captain in particular. But the angel returned his messages in his lovely script. Crowley would open the bottle, smell the traces of the spirit that it had once contained, dream of sharing that bottle with his unlikely compatriot.

The sea filled him with a kind of longing that he had always carried. The breadth of the ocean reminded him of the berth he gave the angel, always keeping him at arm’s length, lest he surrender to temptation. Temptation was well in his wheelhouse--so why was it that Aziraphale tempted him so? It was far beyond a temptation of the flesh. It was something far grander than that, something  _ divine. _

The letters ceased to be short and frivolous. Crowley was swarthy pirate captain by day, and by starry night, he poured himself onto sheafs of parchment. He wrote things that were so much easier to put down to paper, words that he dare not speak aloud. He imagined his words might be lost to the sea, but knew in his heart of hearts, the one that was more soul than unnecessary corporation, that his words would find Aziraphale.

Aziraphale could pretend that the words had not reached him. He could pretend that it was the drunken ramblings of a sea-addled mind. He could assume it was some joke, or a demonic scheme. But he hadn’t. He knew these silent confessions were true.

He had already known. He had always known. Crowley had swooped in to rescue him too many times, had silently confessed in so many little ways that the demon didn’t even realize. Aziraphale admired the bravery of Crowley to put it to words.

The sea made Aziraphale feel free. Of course, he would never be free from his Heavenly provenance, but he could imagine he was free, floating alone in the expanse. It brought him a kind of peace and clarity he had scarce experienced in his millennia on Earth. His worries and fealty to the expectations of his Heavenly superiors were condensed and packed away, and his soul truly soared.

When Aziraphale had written to him that they should meet, Crowley nearly chickened out. To see Aziraphale so shortly after he had written his truest feelings made it all too real. He would have been content to let his love sail without reply into the depths of the sea. But the longing ached too fiercely in his chest.

They were wed that very night. It was merely a symbolic marriage, for they both acknowledged with laughter that they had been bonded in a spiritual way far longer--all the way back to Eden.

This new development should have made the longing worsen, but Crowley found it was the opposite. He felt lighter, a feeling of  _ anticipation  _ replacing that longing. Their meetings were regular and frequent--and normally  _ timely,  _ to avoid the mercurial call of duty and the sea.

“I  _ am  _ sorry for being late,” Crowley said as he leaned forward on the edge of the table, softened by the wine and Aziraphale’s careful fingers on his skin.

“My dear, if it was due to you being  _ shot,  _ I should say I’ll forgive you,” Aziraphale replied just as softly. “Was it one of ours?” he asked as he straightened and sought out a clean cloth to wipe his hands.

“The Trading Company? Or a Heavenly Host?” Crowley teased, peering up at Aziraphale with his bare serpentine eyes. “Yeah,” he sighed, “It was one of yours. A trading ship.”

“Were you in the wrong?” Aziraphale shot back, barely containing his smirk.

“Well, I’d say no,” Crowley argued and took a sip from his cup. His lips downturned a bit and he averted his eyes. “Took one of those slave ships.”

Aziraphale tensed, jaw tightening. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well.”

“Yeah,” Crowley muttered, twisting his cup slowly on the table. “So I sailed it back where it came from.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders relaxed and he smiled down at Crowley. “You really are a good person,” he said warmly.

Crowley bristled, naked shoulders drawing up toward his ears. “Don’t say that,” he sneered. “Makes my skin crawl.”

Aziraphale chuckled and began to unravel some bandages. “Sit up,” he said lightly.

Crowley pushed back from the edge of the table. As Aziraphale began to wind the bandages around his torso, he smiled and poured his angel a glass of madeira. It felt nice to be doted upon so softly by his husband, a rare treat in the rough and tumble lifestyle he found himself in. The boy who had dug the lead out of his torso had been not so gentle.

Once Aziraphale had finished, Crowley offered him a cup. Aziraphale took it and then sat himself in the other available chair with a flourish of his coat tails.

“Thanks, Commander,” Crowley teased.

“Of course, Captain,” Aziraphale replied in kind. “But do be more careful, my dear.” A hint of worry crept onto Aziraphale’s face. “It would be a mess of paperwork if you discorporated. And not just from a lethal wound--it could have become infected or-”

Crowley reached over to place his hand over Aziraphale’s. “Not gonna happen. So stop your worrying.”

Aziraphale didn’t look convinced, but he turned his hand to clasp Crowley’s and his worry softened to a smile.

“Drink up. It’s smooth sailing for the next few days.” Crowley raised his cup.

Aziraphale met it, but with a mild storm brewing on his brow. “Day,” he corrected. “I can’t be away from my crew much longer.” He took a sip of the curious brew and brightened. “Oh, this is lovely, Crowley. What did you say it was called?”

Crowley frowned, ignoring the question. “Aw, c’mon. Can’t we call in a favor for a storm or somethin’? Disrupt the schedule?”

Aziraphale sighed. “No, Crowley. We can’t just… call in a favor…”

Crowley’s frown began to slowly shift and melt into a smile. He draped himself back on the chair, tapping his bootheel as he grinned. “Mayhaps… we could brew a little storm of our own.” He blessed his smirk with a drink.

Aziraphale watched that suggestive smirk and his cheeks pinkened. “I don’t know what you’re implying,” the angel said, but the quirk of his own lips said otherwise.

Crowley leaned forward, bracing his elbow on the table, and let his chin fall into his hand. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what happened? That night…” He raised a brow.

Aziraphale’s blush intensified, as did his smile.

“I could remind you,” Crowley murmured with promise.

Aziraphale met Crowley’s eyes. That sunflower-yellow gaze did things to him, especially when hooded with such intent. “Now, Crowley, we can’t be setting off hurricanes every month…”

“But maybe with a little practice, we could use it to our advantage…” Crowley mused. “Set some of those pesky British ships off course before they reach Africa…”

Aziraphale laughed. “Don’t try to make your lecherous thoughts sound so noble!” 

“What? A few good deeds sprinkled in with indulgences doesn’t get you in the mood?” Crowley purred.

Aziraphale’s gaze grew softer, giving Crowley’s own tempting gaze a run for its money. “I hardly need all of that to get in the mood, my dear.”

Crowley was always taken aback when Aziraphale gave him those bedroom eyes. He swallowed, fighting to keep the heat from rising into his cheeks.

“But you’re in a state,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully. His eyes traveled over Crowley’s bare torso toward his bandaged middle, albeit with an altogether different interest than before. “I wonder if you’re up to brewing up such a storm.”

“Only one way to find out.”

The two could only caress each other with words so long before their hands were too eager to do the same. Crowley was first to take the angel by the hand, drawing it to his lips so he could kiss those still-soft hands. It was some kind of miracle that his angel could stay oh-so soft everywhere even after months of being blasted by salt and wind.

Aziraphale blessed his cheek with the softness of his palm, and Crowley leaned into it with a sigh of relief. He closed his eyes as Aziraphale brushed a wayward curl from his cheek, the breath stolen from his lungs as his angel kissed him.

It wasn’t until he felt the touch of his lips that he realized just how desperately he had missed this. It always came as a shock to the system, a reminder of millennia wasted without that touch. He had carried that longing with him for so long that it became a familiar stone in his chest, a weight always carried. When it was lifted, he felt like he was flying, tossed about in a tempest over the wine-dark sea.

Crowley came back to his senses as he heard Aziraphale sigh softly, a wordless affirmation of his love. He opened his eyes and was greeted with that brilliant summer day smile. It made his heart swell to the point of bursting, ache and feel fulfilled all in the same breath.

“What?” Crowley asked, defensive of these over-soft feelings wracking his body.

Aziraphale laughed, light and carefree as a seabird. “You have no idea how precious you look…”

Crowley practically squirmed, looking away. “‘M not precious. Demon,” he grumbled.

Aziraphale just kept pouring that affection out. Crowley didn’t have the same capacity for feeling love that Aziraphale did, but it was impossible not to feel the love radiating off his angel.

Crowley took Aziraphale by the hand and led him to his feet. “Not precious,” he argued. “Full of impure thoughts,” he said as he tugged Aziraphale into his arms. But his kisses were not full of the lustful hunger that would have been appropriate of a demon. There was passion there, but it was a desperate kind--desperate to express the love he felt with even half the intensity Aziraphale packed in those meaningful looks.

Aziraphale fell in. He always fell into those tender-hungry kisses, fell into love with his husband all over again, but he knew this would not cause him to Fall from Heaven’s Grace. This was a love too pure, too true, to be sinful. They may have used their corporations of flesh and blood to express that love, but it came from a need to be closer, to be as one, unified in this ineffable love that sprung eternal between them.

“Let me make it up to you,” Crowley whispered between their lips. He nipped at Aziraphale’s plump lower lip. “For making you wait… for making you worry…” His golden eyes shone soft in the darkening evening.

Aziraphale twined his fingers with Crowley’s, soft and sweet, but there was a hunger lurking in those supposedly innocent eyes. The demon drew his angel into the bedroom. 

The cabin was small and simple, but with enough accommodation to suit Aziraphale’s standards. It would have been a waste of an abode if Aziraphale didn’t have his books, albeit a small collection. Were it not for those, Aziraphale might have well come looking after Crowley in his mysterious absence. The bed was for Crowley’s benefit, and as such, was much more plush than one might normally find in a island cabin by the sea.

The cabin had many oddities that could have only come about or survive in the harsh conditions due to the ethereal and occult nature of its occupants. It had windows--more windows than was prudent near such tropical waters prone to storms--and the interior seemed more resilient to the oppressive humidity and salt and sand. The books did not swell with the wet heat, nor did the mattress mold, no matter how long the cabin lay unoccupied. Not to mention--no one had ever stumbled upon this island, nor deigned to set foot upon it. Part of that was legend that the island was haunted by the ghosts of a shipwrecked crew turned cannibals--Crowley’s contribution--and part of it was rumor that it was inhabited by a rabid species of rodent that carried some horrific sort of plague--Aziraphale’s influence.

Once in the heart of their secret abode, their marital home, Crowley liked to joke, the redheaded demon loosed his hand in favor of running his calloused fingers up the commander’s fine coat. Only the finest for his high-ranking angel.

“So proper,” Crowley teased as he flicked at the rank badges glittering on Aziraphale’s chest.

Aziraphale chuckled. “I was preparing to leave,” he reminded Crowley.

The demon frowned as he slid the coat from Aziraphale’s shoulders. “I’m glad you stayed,” he said, tone laced with guilt.

Aziraphale eased from his coat and put it over the back of a chair--otherwise, he was sure Crowley would have just let it drop to the floor. “Of course I stayed, my dear,” Aziraphale said gently, soothing Crowley’s guilt with a touch to his cheek. He leaned in and kissed his husband, one hand sliding into his thick, long locks in search of the tie that held it back. “Haven’t I always waited for you?”

Crowley felt his cheeks grow hot as he pressed his brow against Aziraphale’s. His angel’s patience, not to mention his secret awareness of Crowley’s own feelings he had repressed for so long, always left Crowley simultaneously speechless and too full of words clamoring for priority. All he managed was a little, “ngk,” before Aziraphale kissed away the need for words.

Crowley’s hands slid over the fine linen of Aziraphale’s shirt, starched and neat over the plush flesh he had always adored. Aziraphale was soft in all the ways he was lean, generous in the ways he was lacking, supple where he was wan. Aziraphale’s physical presence made him feel whole, as if they were always a matching pair, meant to be joined.

He began to loose the angel’s cravat as Aziraphale’s soft fingers undid his hair, combed it free. His scalp tingled, hair tossed in the measured breeze of Aziraphale’s touch. 

Aziraphale loved the way Crowley never failed to shiver, even moan, when his hair was touched. The angel knew Crowley would be reluctant to admit that it wasn’t just the sensation, but the intimacy of the touch that made him so weak in the knees. But Aziraphale could feel it in the way his lips softened, his hands tightened, pleading silently, clinging fervently.

The demon managed to bare Aziraphale neck, then buried himself into it, lost for a moment in the soft fingers in his hair, the warm embrace that stirred him in ways he could anticipate, yet never prepare for. He kissed softly at Aziraphale’s neck as he worked down the buttons of his shirt.

It took Crowley a moment before he could focus on anything other than those soft hands carding through his hair. But he was determined to thank every inch of Aziraphale’s body for his patience, for his care despite his worry. His lips traveled in the wake of his fingers, nose against the dusting of hair on his chest.

Aziraphale let out a contented sigh as Crowley traveled down his abdomen, encouraging the demon, gathering his hair at the nape of his neck. Crowley stopped short and clicked his teeth as he bent the wrong way and a twinge shot across his side.

Aziraphale frowned and took Crowley by the shoulders. “You can make it up to me properly if you’ll stop worsening that wound,” he said with that gentle-but-firm smile. The angel led Crowley back to the bed. “We surely won’t be brewing up any storms with you at half capacity.”

Crowley smirked as he slumped onto the bed and kicked off his boots. “I’m not so fragile,” he argued with his lips while his body complied.

Aziraphale silenced Crowley’s complaints with his lips as he guided him down to the bed. His hands slid over Crowley’s bare chest, that confident touch drawing Crowley toward it like a compass needle toward north, then followed around his ribs to the arch of his spine. The angel’s knees dimpled the mattress as he crept closer. “But we both know,” Aziraphale said a breath away from Crowley’s lips, “who’s the stronger of us two.” Suddenly, Crowley found himself effortlessly in the middle of the bed, hefted by those gentle hands that belied such strength.

Crowley laughed breathlessly as his hands found their natural place on Aziraphale’s hips. “Then it should be no trouble at all cookin’ up a storm with you at the helm,” he husked as his lover’s thighs straddled him. Their lips melted together in time with their pelvises, finally a complete system.

Aziraphale’s hands tangled into Crowley’s hair once more, cradled his head as their lips greeted each other like the tide to the shore, ebbing and flowing in perfect harmony while Crowley’s hips began to rock under Aziraphale’s. The demon dragged his palms over the coarse fabric of Aziraphale’s trousers, eager for the fine, silken flesh beneath.

As the angel drew back to catch a breath that had been stolen by his lover, he felt a pregnant stillness in the air. Crowley’s breath warmed his lips, mixed in currents with his own. “It’s quiet,” he whispered, a playful glint in his eye. The ever-present sea breeze was silent against their cabin.

“The calm before the storm,” Crowley promised with a tender, sultry smile before diving back into those lips.

The desire to feel skin against skin over-rode the restraints of their clothes, a miracle unbidden that freed them to be as close as their corporations would allow. Crowley moaned into Aziraphale’s mouth as he felt those plush thighs press against his hips, that alone enough to stir his simmering arousal. His angel was poised just-so and felt the rise intimately between his legs.

Aziraphale encouraged it with a rock of his hips, and Crowley’s body arched as if pulled inexorably toward Aziraphale’s orbit, lifted from the bed and broken from his hips. Aziraphale loved to see Crowley unwind so easily, with only the faintest of touch. He pretended to be coy, to be the temptor, but in truth, he was pliable as wave-drenched sand.

The blond pressed his lips to that arched throat, allowing himself to fully embrace the longing he had felt, worsened by Crowley’s unexpected delay. He may have kept it more tightly locked away--or more closely guarded to his heart--but he pined just as badly for his husband when they were apart. It was his own fervent attachment to his existence-long friend, supposed adversary-turned-companion, that had allowed him to recognize Crowley’s own feelings. His praise for Crowley’s bravery to admit it was best expressed in this way, with grateful kisses and whispered praise.

As Crowley’s chest ached with louder moans, the wind began to whistle and howl outside. It went unnoticed, Aziraphale too distracted by the strong fingers mussing his curls, the lean body tipping and yawing beneath him with the regularity of the sea. Aziraphale met the grind of Crowley’s wanton hips with his own, relishing the way his cock fit so perfectly against him.

The close press of their naked bodies should have given Crowley some relief from the ache of want, but it only worsened his desire. When the object of his desire was so close at hand, it became nigh unbearable. He squeezed Aziraphale’s thighs, the whine escaping his throat making Aziraphale laugh against his skin.

The angel sat up and reached back, watching the ruin spread across Crowley’s face as he stroked him slick. “So precious…” Aziraphale sighed, and this time Crowley did not deny his praise. How could he when Aziraphale’s voice was so husky with lust, so utterly different than his usual prim and proper tone?

“Please…” Crowley begged and bit his lip.

Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s chin with his free hand, enticing his lip from between his teeth so he could run his thumb across the flush-silk skin. “But I so love seeing you like this, my dear…” That bastard grin crept out as he brought his palm to the tip of Crowley’s cock, guiding the shaft against his rear. Crowley’s nails dug into the angel’s thighs, raking red lines into his plush flesh as he moaned.

“You’re torturing me,” Crowley whined.

“You  _ were  _ late,” Aziraphale reminded him. As he stroked slowly down Crowley’s cock, he heard a particularly loud gust of wind buffet against the window. He spared a look out into the night and saw the gleaming crests of waves through the bending palms. If he kept teasing Crowley, they really would brew up a hurricane.

“But you know I can’t help but indulge you…” Aziraphale purred. He leaned forward to kiss Crowley’s desperate lips, lifting his hips to guide Crowley’s cock against himself. The demon’s eager hands kneaded his lover’s thighs as rain began to splatter against the window. 

Aziraphale’s lips parted against Crowley’s, and the demon was weak to hear that little intake of breath. He tried to muffle his own pleasure so as not to miss every little sound of delight as the angel’s body took him in. His angel was the indulgent one--consuming him like some special treat.

Crowley’s breath rattled in his throat as Aziraphale seated himself fully, the angel’s moan lost under the crack of thunder overhead. Crowley felt it in his bones, felt a sizzle in the air that was part electricity and part white-hot heat of being one with his husband.

He couldn’t stand to just lie there, despite Aziraphale’s insistence that he not strain himself. He lifted from the bed, wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, clutching his shoulders as he rained kisses along his collarbone.

The angel weaved his fingers into Crowley’s tumble of messy, fiery locks and rocked his hips with a moan murmured against his temple. Crowley’s groan was echoed by another roll of thunder, long and lingering. He would have been content to just stay like this, as one with Aziraphale, still and whole. His hands mapped the familiar geography of Aziraphale’s spine, the soft dip of his waist, his generous hips, over his plump rear.

With Crowley’s hands supporting him, Aziraphale rode the demon, slowly and steadily at first, mirroring the pace of the downpour outside. But as their eyes met, speaking wordless love, he chased the pleasure of Crowley moving inside him. As his breath grew shallower, the rain lashed against the window. 

The storm raged, fueled by the forbidden desire blossoming between angel and demon. Crowley, lost in his pleasure, pushed Aziraphale onto his back. The angel cried out in ecstasy as Crowley took charge, plunging deeper, searching out that treasured spot that would make the angel sing. The sea roiled and crashed, waves thundering on the beach as the demon pumped desperately into his angel, wounded torso be damned.

“Come for me,” Crowley begged. He could feel Aziraphale’s cock weeping in his hand as he stroked him in time with his thrusts. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Aziraphale like this--flushed and so lewd, so honest in his pleasure. “Come for me, angel,” Crowley breathed.

Aziraphale’s bliss was writ divine across his lips as he arched into Crowley’s hand. The demon had always known just how to touch him, how to read his body. All those millennia of anticipating Aziraphale’s wants and needs had made him an expert. The familiar nickname, title turned endearment, sent him over the edge.

Crowley peaked in perfect harmony, the sensation of their very essences intertwining unmistakable. Their harsh, short breaths were drowned out by the tempest just outside their cabin. The storm surrounded them, cocooned them away from their obligations, away from their outside lives. All that remained was this embrace.

Aziraphale looked up at his beloved, their chests mere inches apart as they lay brow-to-brow, sharing breath. The demon’s burnished copper hair brushed his cheek, tickled his neck. He gathered it back to one side, tracing the cord of Crowley’s neck.

“Helluva storm…” Crowley murmured. Their breath had finally calmed enough to hear the raging rain and winds, the creak of palm trunks.

“A righteous storm,” Aziraphale said playfully as Crowley sank further against him, veritably nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

“Might rage all night,” Crowley mused, kissing Aziraphale’s neck with grinning lips.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile. “I suppose it’s safer if we just stay here.”

“At least until the storm passes,” Crowley said with a suggestive raise of his brow.


End file.
